


Forget-Me-Nots

by LadyProto



Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Aftermath of Violence, Angst, Burns, F/M, Flowers, Gen, Hallucinations, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Multi, Other, Past Rape/Non-con, Rape Aftermath, Realistic, Tea, tea time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-13
Updated: 2019-04-13
Packaged: 2020-01-12 10:40:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18444881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyProto/pseuds/LadyProto
Summary: Tea time for battered heroes. Sora pretends. Naminé suffers. Riku Burns.((Naminé has flashbacks of her time in the tower. Riku helps her the only way he knows how.Along the way you’ll meet: non-con, abuse, hallucinations, tea kettles that hold an inordinate amount of water, burning flesh, wet socks, guilt, self loathing, shoving disney characters in your gritty realism, botany, other worldly flowers, and a whole lot of pain.))





	Forget-Me-Nots

In the safe hold of Yen Sid’s tower, Sora places the sugar bowl on the table with a sense of reverence. Belle had gifted him this tea set, complete with matching place-settings for their ever growing circle. On the dainty tiered tray, Aqua arranges the butter cookies she has made with Remy while Kairi levels out the infuser with black tea from the Land of Dragons. Sora makes eye contact with each of the group before sheepishly scratching the back of his head. 

It’s two o’clock, time to plaster on their smiles. Time for tea. 

Naminé can't bring herself to join them. She sits alone in a rough hewn chair, her back towards the dinner table with its awkward scene. Instead she stares straight ahead, letting the sun from the expansive window burn into her new retinas. There are potted roses everywhere, casting exaggerated shadows along the floorboards. Their thick, thorny vines twist into one another until their sheer volume cannot be contained by a single pot. They too are otherworldly. They stand as gnarled testaments to worlds allowed to know peace. Ventus had brought these from the Enchanted Dominion, where they were to protect the honor of some beautiful maiden. But what would they do to those not as pure? 

Involuntarily, Naminé squirms. The wooden chair catches her skirt, bunching it up past her thighs. To stand up and straighten it would just elicit more stares. It’s not worth it. She forces herself into passivity. She shouldn’t call attention to herself and her obsession with this stupid plant. Even with her eyes closed she sees it. Those powdery fragile flowers thrusted upwards into the light. Thick swelling buds all pink and delicate and violent. The thick vines take on new life, encircling her wrists, threatening to spread her apart. 

_Like him. Like in the past. Like with Marluxia._

The kettle screams. Aqua’s chair creaks. Naminé ’s eyes flicker open, and just like that the image is gone. Her wrists are devoid of scratches and she’s sitting alone in her chair. She clenches and unclenches her fists. Her pinky feels out of alignment. The room sways while Sora tells a joke. It stupid. The others laugh anyways. 

She fixates on the plant again. Their thorns are thick and triangular at the base, but sharpened into needles at their points. She feels them stabbing into her with ease, ejecting new growths inside of her soul. She stays still. At least the pain of such injuries make more sense than the pretend going on behind her. 

Over her shoulder, she hears Terra playfully scoff at Ventus. Aqua laughs in response. The older man’s crimes have apparently been forgotten. He’s one of the good guys now, regardless of who he hurt. Hearts like Ven, Sora and Kairi easily file those hurts away as mistakes from the past. Of course, maybe that’s a sign of their purity. Naminé tries to be the same. Afterall, who is she to tell him that he doesn’t deserve forgiveness? Doesn’t she too want to be forgiven? Heroes and legends are allowed to move on, but a Nobody like her stays stuck in stasis. 

A familiar voice calls her by name. _Naminé._ That’s her. She has a body now. It’s hers. The name seems to solidify that. She looks up to see Riku attempting to include her in the faux-gaiety. He balances a cup of tea in his left hand and a small plate with two cookies in his right. “Hungry?” He gives a subtle nod to his offerings. 

She opens her mouth to say no, but the words won’t come out. The sickly sweetness waffs up to her new nostrils and collects with the bile in her mouth. Butter cookies, so delicate and fragile. It’s the sugar glaze that ruins them. It’s thin and anemic, gathering into milky white beads along the edges. 

Riku places the cup of tea in her hands anyways. She stares unfocused at the debris of tea leaves that have begun to settle at the bottom. He made it the way she likes, with with sugar and milk to make it pretty, make it palatable. The two sugar cubes quiver along the bottom rim of the cup as their edges gradually become less defined. She can barely shake her head as he tries to hand her the small saucer as well.

Riku’s shadow overtakes her. He moves closer until he too can watch the tea leaves wilt under the intense heat. He follows her gaze from the rose bush, to the tea, and back again. She feels him tense, hears that little angry ‘tsk’ from his clenched teeth. He turns on his heels without another word. 

Of course. He has every right to be angry at her. He went through all this trouble to integrate her back into reality and this is how she repays him? Staring at vined plants while having vivid flashbacks? She can’t forgive and she can’t forget. While the others try to weave back the threads of their old lives, she stays unraveled like a worn mitten. 

Riku stomps around behind her. There’s a clatter of the aluminum tea kettle against the stove coils. The tarnished faucet squeaks as he forces the tap fully open. She knows the rhythm of his movements from their time in Oblivion, the subtle taps of his finger against the counter top as he forgoes the stove’s built-in igniter and uses his own firaga instead. From the corner of her eyes she sees the brief flash of light as the flames meet with the natural gases. He hisses. He must have burnt himself. Her fault again. She should have just eat the damn cookie. Choke on the crumbs she’s been given and be grateful. No ones happy anyways. She should just put into the effort like the rest of them. 

The shrill whistle indicates that the water comes to a full boil quickly under Riku’s dark magic. Behind her, the others shuffle the plates and saucers around in preparation for their second kettle of the afternoon. 

Then, Sora makes a small squeak of confusion. 

Naminé looks up as Riku walks past the table, then by her chair. He pauses for a moment in front of the expansive window, squinting against the harsh light. His tall broad body becomes a shadow against the windowpane. He whispers her name. Curses himself. And for a moment he stands, his bare hands wrapped around the boiling kettle. His fingers are red. His knuckles appear bloodless. She meets his eyes from one brief second. There is no rage, just resignation. For one intense second he stares into her heart. What he is about to do is a necessity. 

Riku dumps the boiling water into the tangled mass of rose vines.

The heavy wet stench of lysed chlorophyll expands to every corner of the room. “Riku, what the hell?” Terra slams his palms on the table. Ceramic plates cling as they are jostled together. Ventus gasps at the curse. Goofy covers his mouth. There’s a blanket of shock that keeps them from reacting with anything more than panicked glances.

Riku ignores them, tilting the kettle to a more extreme angle. The work of killing doesn’t need a delicate hand. The pink blooms vibrate from the shock, the petals darkening into deep crimson as they are scorched by the white steam. The leaves blanch, boil, curl in on themselves to escape the extreme heat. The tender green of new growth is boiled to a deathly mottled gray.

The dirt becomes saturated, the pot cannot contain it, and several waves splash on the floor, soaking Riku’s sock feet with scalding water. He makes no move to avoid the burning liquid. He endures without flinching. When he’s finished, he tosses the kettle to the side. He turns the face the table, still half-shadowed by his proximity to the blazing sun. The others hold their collective breaths, waiting for some kind of explanation. Riku gives the slightest of smiles. “I never liked roses.”


End file.
